“It’s not you that will be leaving me a long while alone, Hal—and look—look! The sun’s growing brighter—duar na criosd! Oh, the bright glory of it, and little Eileen beckoning to me—oh, and she so beautiful, so beautiful——”
So Phelim Burke, smiling and with the soft Gaelic on his lips, put out his hand into the air and touched fingers with life that none other could see.
Presently Crawford looked up, and saw the Irishmen who had loved Sir Phelim standing around, tears running down their ragged beards, with Frontin and three Englishmen beside; the others were dead. “Mhuire as truagh!” burst out the Irish voices, but at that wail, Crawford came stiffly to his feet and cut short the keen cry.
“Phelim na Murtha is at peace—see you not the smile on his lips? Mourn not. Instead, divide among you what food is left. Frontin, are all the others dead?”
“All warm now, cap’n. Four of us wounded.” Frontin showed a rag about his arm where a shaft had torn the flesh somewhat. “Load the guns, break for the trees—eh?”
“No,” said Crawford curtly. His gaze swept around, but found only silent trees and bleak white solitude. He was trapped and helpless. “Dig a grave in the snow—it’s the best we can do for poor Phelim. Wrap him in the spare furs.”
“There comes that red devil down the valley, cap’n.”
Crawford looked, and saw the burly figure of Maclish. Then he saw Maclish stop and fling back his head, and caught the insolent call.
“Come ye out and talk, Crawford! Bring your black dog if ye like—there’s guns all trained on ye. No talk now of putting a knife in me, eh?”
Crawford beckoned to Frontin and walked out toward where Maclish stood. Desperately, he fought down his raging anger; he must keep cool at all costs. It would do no good to strike down this murderous rogue and then die at the hands of the hidden Stone Men.